Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (105 page)

Kevin’s Dirt would hinder him as it did her.

Liand! Fearing the hunger of the monsters, she nearly shouted at him to stop. But she fought down the impulse. All of her companions were about to die. Her own death was no more than moments away. She could not afford to reject any gambit that might confuse or slow the skurj.

All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne by all who live.

She had to let Liand take his own risks.

Perhaps the Demondim-spawn would protect him—

Like an act of violence against herself, Linden closed her mind to Liand. Instead she told Esmer. “Then you still have to answer my question. Why don’t you want me in Andelain? I’m not going to ‘forswear’ anything until I know what’s at stake.”

“Because you are not needed!” Esmer cried in stymied supplication. “There is

no peril in Andelain! The skurj cannot enter among the Hills. Kastenessen himself cannot. Caesures do not form there. When Thomas Covenant’s ring returned to the Land, Loric’s krill was roused from its slumber. Its might wards the Hills. And other beings also act in Andelain’s defense. The skurj are turned aside. Kastenessen is shunned. Disturbances of time dissipate.

“Andelain is preserved,” Esmer

asserted frantically. “It has no need of you.”

Linden heard him with a surge of joy and despair. Andelain was safe-! If she and her companions could cross four more leagues, they, too, would be protected.

But the distance was too great. They would die on this pile of rocks. None of them would leave its crown alive.

Behind her, the ur-viles and Waynhim growled an indecipherable incantation. Her nerves felt a streak of dank power, black and vitriolic, as the loremaster produced a dagger with a blade that resembled molten iron.

One dagger. The dark lore of all the Waynhim and ur-viles combined could not make one dagger potent enough to ward Liand.

What did he hope to accomplish?

Unable to jump back quickly enough, Galesend dove under an attack; pitched herself headlong down the tearing rocks of the mound’s slope. The creature’s jaws tried to follow her. But Mahrtiir was screaming the Seven Words. And while the beast hesitated, Stave threw rock after rock into its gullet, coercing it to swallow, and swallow again.

In that respite, Galesend regained her feet. Battered and bleeding, she

plunged her sword into the monster’s hide to cut an opening. Then she shoved her arm to the shoulder into its fire. Though she cried out in pain, she probed within the skurj, seeking some essential organ or artery which her fingers could crush.

Coldspray seemed to hack in all directions. Cabledarm, Grueburn, and the other Giants fought like titans; delivered an avalanche of blows. Even Kindwind gave battle, kicking heavily

while she clutched her severed arm to slow the bleeding. Stave and Mahrtiir and the Humbled labored everywhere, hurling rocks and interruptions.

Still monsters mounted the tor, as unrelenting as seas.

“That still isn’t an answer!” Linden shouted, nearly wailing in frustration and terror. Come on, you sick bastard! Tell me something I can use! “It doesn’t explain why you and

Kastenessen and Roger,” and Sunder and Hollian. “don’t want me to go there.”

Find me, Covenant had urged her. Find me.

Remember that I’m dead.

Esmer writhed as if he were being torn apart. “Are you blind, Wildwielder?” Excoriation and horror bled from his eyes; his wounds. His shredded cymar

fluttered in a kind of ecstasy. “Do you comprehend nothing? We fear you.

“We fear what you may attempt with the krill. All the Earth fears it, every discerning or lorewise being among the living and the Dead. Even those who crave the destruction of life and Time fear it. The Harrow fears it, though doubtless he will feign otherwise. We cannot perceive your purpose. We know only your grief and your great rage. Thus we are assured that your

intent is dreadful beyond any

estimation. It will be no mere Ritual of Desecration. With Loric’s krill, you will strive toward an end too absolute and abominable to be endured.

“Therefore you must forswear your purpose,” he finished in a harsh whisper. “If you do not, I must incur your death, though Cail’s blood in my veins demands to serve you. You will extinguish hope forever in the Earth.”

Esmer had answered her. But he gave her nothing.

And she did not believe him: not entirely. Linden, find me. She was convinced that Esmer and Kastenessen-and Roger-wanted to prevent her from reaching Thomas Covenant among the Dead.

The one Swordmain whose name she did not know went down: Linden could not tell whether she would stand again.

Somehow the remaining Giants, the four Haruchai, and Mahrtiir prevented the skurj from swarming over the crest. But with each strike, their incinerating crimson fangs reached deeper among the defenders. Bhapa, Pahni, and Anele had all been scorched with fetid blood.

And Linden could not fight for them. She had no power. Esmer stood in front of her like a mute wail, quelling any possibility of wild magic.

While she reeled, helpless to save herself, helpless to save anyone, she heard a massive concussion like a crash of thunder.

She had not seen the sky grow dark; had not noticed the daylight failing until only incandescent fangs and the orcreses pure radiance illuminated the battle. But when raindrops splashed her face, she looked up and saw thunderheads boiling overhead.

Elsewhere there were no clouds: only the vicinity of the for was covered in storm. Nevertheless the thunderheads were swollen and livid, flagrant with lightning and wind and violence-

-and rain.

When she spun toward Liand, saw him standing with the orcrest clenched over his head, she realized what he had done.

Stave had confirmed that the Sunstone could be used to cause weather—

Liand held the Staff in the crook of his elbow. His other hand gripped the hand of the ur-vile loremaster palm to palm. Both his human skin and the loremaster’s black flesh were crusted with blood.

Oh, God, Linden thought, oh, God, remembering how the ur-viles shared their strength and clarity. The

loremaster must have cut its own palm as well as Liand’s; mingled its blood with his; infused him with its weird lore and puissance.

With blood, the Demondim-spawn had shown him how to create a storm. They had made him able to do so, in spite of their own suffering in proximity to the Staff.

Rain! Water-It was a weapon. Wind and thunder and lightning meant

nothing: those elemental forces could not deter the skurj. But rain-!

As soon as she understood what Liand was doing, Linden knew that he would fail. He had already surpassed all of his limits-and his Sunstone had not shattered. But no mere shower would cool or daunt the terrible fires of the skurj. He had achieved more than she could have imagined. Nevertheless he simply did not have enough power

The Staff did not belong to him. It was hers: she had made it. Caerroil Wildwood had incised it with unfathomable implications, and had returned it to her.

“Liand!” she yelled as she scrambled over the rocks toward him. “That’s brilliant! You’re brilliant!

“Give me the Staff!

Esmer made a sound like keening or

exultation; but he did not leave the mound.

She feared that Liand would not hear her. He had immersed himself utterly in his efforts; in his orcrest and her Staff and the loremaster’s blood. He may have gone beyond hearing.

But as she neared him, he unfolded his elbow to release the Staff.

Suddenly one of the monsters toppled,

yowling, as if its serpentlike body had been cut in half. With a rage as loud as the massed thunder, Longwrath climbed onto the crest.

Anointed and annealed by the gore of the creature that he had slain, his flamberge steamed in the gathering fall of rain.

Without hesitation, he sprang at Linden. His great size and strength carried him toward her in three strides.

His sword wheeled to send her head spinning far from the tor.

In the same instant, Stave hurled a large rock that struck the side of Longwrath’s head. The impact staggered the mad Swordmain. He missed his footing; fell involuntarily to one knee with the tip of his blade inches from Linden’s face.

Desperately Grueburn and Coldspray converged on Longwrath. Grueburn

grappled for his sword-arm while Coldspray kicked him in the jaw.

Linden heard a snapping sound that may have been Longwrath’s neck; but she did not falter. She was already shouting, “Melenkurion abatha!” as she snatched the Staff from Liand. “Duroc minas mill!” At once, Earthpower and Law poured through her as though she had uncapped a geyser. “Harad khabaal!”

With every ounce of her passion and purpose, she reached for Liand’s storm. Wielding her fire like a scourge, she flailed at the rain until it become torrential.

Between heartbeats, she transformed Liand’s showers. At once, they became a downpour so heavy that she seemed to have torn open an ocean in the sky. Water pounded the stones with such force that it nearly knocked her from her feet. Everything around her was

inundated, hammered, bludgeoned, as if she stood directly under the cascade of the Mithil’s Plunge.

Now there was no light at all apart from the fire of the Staff and the laval gaping of the monsters’ fangs. Liand had collapsed. The loremaster held him while a Waynhim retrieved his quenched orcrest and returned it to its pouch at his waist.

Linden could no longer hear thunder:

the torrent was louder. Rain swept the voices of her companions away. Only the furious consternation of the skurj pierced the downpour. They were creatures of magma and fire, stone and earth. They would not have survived if they had been dropped into the Sunbirth Sea. The whipped weight and ferocity of Linden’s rainstorm did not kill them. But it erupted into steam in their mouths. Crimson fume burst from their teeth. Explosive gouts of superheated vapor tore at their fangs,

their flesh, while their necessary heat cooled. When they swallowed, they swallowed water as if it were poison.

The sheer mass of the rain forced them to close their jaws. Then it drove them to eat their way into the ground, seeking an escape from the pummeling torrents.

Linden’s fire was all that remained to light her companions.

She could not blink fast enough to keep her vision clear. She could scarcely hold up her head. Through a cataclysm of water, she barely saw two of Longwrath’s guards clamber onto the crest. She heard nothing while the Giants yelled at each other, making swift decisions. She was focused heart and soul on the Staff and the storm. If Esmer remained or vanished, she did not notice it. She was only distantly aware that the Waynhim and ur-viles had scattered. She had no attention left

for anything except rain.

If she could sustain this downpour—

Without disturbing Linden’s

concentration, Grueburn lifted her from her feet. Stonemage cradled Liand like a sleeping child. Galesend carried Anele while Cabledarm bore Pahni. Still gripping the stump of her lost arm, Kindwind squatted so that Mahrtiir could climb her back, cling to her shoulders. One of Longwrath’s guards

took Bhapa. The other and Coldspray supported Longwrath between them.

Leaving one Giant dead on the peak and another presumably lost to Longwrath’s madness, the Swordmainnir and the Haruchai descended the for in a perilous rush and ran south.

11.

The Essence of the Land

When the company had passed out from under the downpour into the ambiguous shelter of the trees, the Giants paused-briefly, briefly-so that Linden could shift her attention to healing.

Kindwind’s arm was the most urgent of their wounds, but their hurts were many. Galesend had been nearly hamstrung by raking fangs. Coldspray, Cabledarm, and Stonemage bled from gashes like latticework on their arms

and legs. And one of Longwrath’s guards wore fractured bones in her cheek: he must have struck her when he broke free to pursue Linden. Only Grueburn and the Swordmain who aided Coldspray with Longwrath’s unconscious bulk had avoided serious harm.

In addition, the Humbled, the Ramen, Stave, Liand, and Anele had all been burned by splashes of gore. Among Linden’s original companions, she

alone had escaped any physical hurt. Her injuries were more spiritual, and she had borne them longer.

As soon as the Giants stopped, she withdrew her scourge of Earthpower from the thunderheads. Gritting her teeth against her fear of the skurj, she transformed her fire to more gentle flames and spread them over her friends. Rapidly she sealed Kindwind’s severed arm; stopped the bleeding of the Giants; sent a quick wash of Law

and balm to soothe the Ramen, Liand, and Stave. But she did not offend the Humbled by offering to ease them. And she did not risk triggering Anele’s self-imposed defenses. She already knew how fiercely he would fight against healing and sanity.

Then the company ran again, dragging Longwrath with them. None of them knew when the skurj would attack again, and Liand’s storm clouds were beginning to scatter.

Grueburn’s arms seemed as certain as the Earth’s bones. The senses of the Haruchai were preternaturally acute, and the Giants could see far. Surely they would know it when Kastenessen rallied his monsters?

The skurj had vindicated Linden’s visions during her translation to the Land. If Lord Foul kept his promises, she would eventually have to face the Worm of the World’s End.

Nevertheless her efforts with the Staff had drained her. Fatigue blurred her attention for a time. Like the torrents which she had left behind, she frayed and drifted until only Jeremiah remained. Her son and Covenant.

Within the Andelainian Hills, Loric’s krill summoned her like a beacon.

Esmer had not rescued her or her companions. But the lodestone of his presence had drawn the Demondim

spawn. And he had answered some of her questions.

Aid and betrayal.

Her foes were right to fear her.

Slowly Liand regained consciousness, although he rested with his eyes closed in Stonemage’s embrace. The Humbled had already scattered to search for signs of pursuit behind or snares ahead. Mahrtiir watched over